


Not Quite the Last

by FlitShadowflame



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canon-Typical Racism, Gen, awkward amount of philosophy and theology, canonical events mostly, middle-aged cousland warden is going to adopt ALL the babies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 09:00:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5862928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlitShadowflame/pseuds/FlitShadowflame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Edward Cousland is in his thirties when he is recruited to the Grey Wardens; the older of the Cousland brothers and heir to the teyrn.</p>
<p>He is better-prepared to wage war on the Blight (and Loghain Mac Tir, if necessary) than just about anyone else, but he's not doing it alone.  As he meets each companion, he also discovers the future of his house is not so dire as he'd expected.</p>
<p>Originally written for a <a href="http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/11571.html?thread=60713011#t60713011">kink meme prompt</a>, now edited and expanded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Quite the Last

It isn't until after the Joining - and the young knight's protestations about his babe - that Edward Cousland realizes the gravity of his current situation, in regards to his house. Fergus' family was massacred; Fergus himself is missing and presumed dead. Their parents were left mortally wounded in the cellar of a castle amidst a hostile takeover. Edward has just undergone a ritual that he is now informed makes him almost certainly incapable of siring children.

Which leaves exactly one fertile Cousland in the world, and his daughter does not even bear his name. Not for reasons of marriage - rather, for the lack of it. Edward had been young and more than a little drunk when the serving girl charmed her way into his bed, but his father had refused to legitimize the child or permit Edward to marry a commoner (any other noble might have said or meant "elf", rather than commoner, for she was both; but Teyrn Bryce Cousland was old-fashioned, not racist). Rumor had got round and life grew hard for Verona and the babe, so Edward had moved her to Denerim with a healthy stipend in the hopes of providing a comfortable life for the child he would likely never see again, never be permitted to know.

She must be - Maker's mercy, nearly twenty? Of an age with the young Warden who is now, technically, his senior. If she yet lives, of course; life is hard even in Denerim, even for a fairly affluent family.

He says nothing of this to his fellow Wardens, of course, but resolves to find her, when he has the time and wherewithal.

+

Morrigan is no less irritating upon a second acquaintance, Edward finds, but at least she is not prone to taunting him as she does Alistair. Her bitter sarcasm gradually begins to amuse rather than annoy, and after a week's hard march to Lothering he realizes she is just...wholly unaccustomed to social interaction. He gentles his tone a bit without verging on patronizing, and she softens a touch in response, lessens her constant defensiveness.

Coffee helps, too.

+

The lay sister seems suspicious to him from the beginning. In robes and all, and she kills men a decade or two her senior without breaking a sweat or suffering a single nick. Discovering she is a lockpick does not reassure him, nor does her constant, placid devotion to Andraste and the Maker.

He does not speak of this to her. He speaks to her as little as possible, truthfully, which makes her constant jabbering all the more incomprehensible. One would think a lay sister would grow accustomed to long silences.

"Do you believe in the Maker?" she asks him eventually, disheartened by Morrigan's blunt blasphemies, and with Alistair and Morrigan both staring at him in interest he probably can't get away with an evasion.

"Andraste was real," he says, slow and careful, "We have too much evidence of her life to deny that. The things she did, however exaggerated, were real. Certainly she was gifted, perhaps god-touched. Perhaps a mage, as the Tevinters and some others believe. We cannot know for sure." He pauses, meets each other their eyes in turn. "The Maker, we know only from her words, and only as they were recorded by others. Her Chant has no more or less merit than the Dalish gods, nor any other that I know of. It is common, among the religions I have studied, to assert that the gods are dead, or have turned from us, and that is why there are Blights. I cannot speak to the truth or falsity of this. But to believe in a creator and also believe that creator has forsaken us, and yet to worship them even so? This strikes me as foolish. The Dalish invoke their gods from habit, not worship; to remember what they have lost. The Avvar believe their gods remain and still favor them, so their worship is sensical. Rivaini follow their seers, and the Seers speak to spirits much as Avvar augurs do. The spirits, at least, are real and known to be real.

"The Maker is as real as you make him. Andraste's power is only what you give her. The Chantry has become a vast institution that controls most aspects of life in the regions of Thedas where Andrastean believers number in the majority, or at least occupy spaces of power. The Chantry claims to speak with the authority of Andraste's word, but the Chant is not so narrowly defined that it can be interpreted only as they do. And the Chantry has lied before, continues to tell lies but call them truth. Many of the lies are so old - the ones about Shartan, and mages - that much of the Chantry likely believes they _are_ truth." Edward shook his head. "I do not believe in the Chant's teachings, Sister. I believe if any Maker both created mages and found them abhorrent, then there would be no new mages. I believe magic can be dangerous, yes, but no more or less so than fire. With care and wisdom, it is a tool like any other. I believe treating people as naive or confused because they have different beliefs is patronizing. I believe the Blights were caused by something greater than us, but to worship any power who would send such horrors is a mistake. I believe people are dangerous, especially when they believe anything too strongly, like those nobles who believe they have a native superiority to others, those Templars who believe they are a holy weapon and mages are all demons in disguise, and those humans who believe elves are born to be subjugated, but especially those who think only their way, their religion, is right and good. Religion, it seems to me, exists to teach people how to treat others. Any religion that teaches its people to subjugate or forcibly convert different people...that's not a religion I want anything to do with."

He halts, scratching his neck. The young ones are silent as they consider his words, measure them against what they have been taught. "Of course my family and I observed all the usual Chantry rituals. Wouldn't do to have the peasants revolt against heathen overlords. My father liked to say, 'The Cousland clan is older than Andraste, and so are our gods. Whether or not we worship them openly anymore.'"

"What gods do you believe in, then?" Alistair asks, and he is so earnestly curious that Edward smiles.

"The same gods the Alamarri, the Clayne, the Couslands have always believed in, Alistair. The same gods revered by the Avvar and the Chasind, more or less - the Lady of the Skies, the Mountain-Father, the Wintersbreath - and, of course, the hold-beast."

"How can a Ferelden teyrnir keep a hold-beast secretly?" Morrigan scowls, but Edward only laughs.

"Secretly? Of course not. And we do not 'keep' our hold-beast. Rather, he 'keeps' us." He pats his mabari's head. "Couslands have always been renowned for our mabari kennels, though we don't truly use kennels at all. The Admiral always has them well in line."

"How positively Fereldan of you, to worship your dog," Morrigan rolls her eyes.

+

He likes Sten instantly. Quiet, serious, and honorable even when disgraced, the Qunari is a tall, dark mirror of Edward. They spar with longswords and sit in companionable silences.

+

Of all the things he had expected to find in the midst of a Blight, Enchanter Wynne (enchanting Wynne, he thinks dreamily and without irony or sarcasm) is certainly a surprise. She guards the young apprentices like a mother bear, and demands to be involved. He would never dream of refusing her.

Her determination to save young Connor from himself swiftly decides Edward. She is perfect, and he will woo her as is proper for a lady of such noble bearing. He has, in essence, already kidnapped her from Kinloch Hold, her clan of mages, as is the way of his people. They will marry when she is ready, or not at all - because despite Alamarri traditions, he is not the kind of man who will take any woman against her will, whether to bed or to wed.

+

Accepting Zevran as a companion is one of the easiest choices Edward has made regarding his surprising abundance of allies. Alistair was a given; Morrigan, a necessity. Leliana was grudgingly tolerated and Sten's crimes _had_ given him pause, even if the giant struck a chord in Edward. Wynne, the spitfire, had given him no choice at all, but Edward might have hesitated to bring an older woman haring off through the wilds to cure a Blight. But she had been at Ostagar, hadn't she? Not one to flinch from a battle, to be sure. She'd more than earned her right to be here.

Zevran, however, is desperate for a cause, or an end, and Edward has seen so much death by now that he is trying to avoid being its direct cause. Plus, the Admiral adores him immediately, once he has surrendered. Indeed, the Admiral adopts him in the days that follow, and Edward does the same without hesitation. With Zevran, Edward feels at home enough to broach difficult subjects, including the overwhelming tragedy he's been running from since he met Duncan. In return, Zevran lays bare his own troubles and Edward promises they will face what comes together.

Within three weeks, Edward Cousland is the only member of the party that Zevran doesn't flirt with - not because Edward had cause to openly reject him, but because they clicked into a parental relationship with such surprising ease.

Nudging him to Leliana is an amusing exercise. They banter, they show off, they flirt, and now and then they fuck. It doesn't seem serious, but Edward has hopes that will change. Zevran deserves happiness, goodness in his life, and for all Leliana's occasionally insufferable comments about Andraste, the Maker, and so forth, she is genuinely kind.

+

Edward looks at Oghren and sees the man he might have become, without the Wardens to give him purpose. Oghren is adrift in Dwarven society - a man without a clan, abandoned by his wife and left behind by everyone else as they were sent to slaughter for her cause.

It is sympathy Edward feels, not pity, but his sympathy is tempered with caution. A drunkard with Oghren's strength, his obvious disdain for women, and his lewd manner - the dwarf is not someone Edward particularly wants to have around his campfire, not with the ladies of the group present to hear his, often vile, commentary on women.

"I would be a fool to turn down a man of your ability, Oghren," he says. "Yet there must be terms. Hard liquor is not an expense we can afford - and any more money we gain should go to our supplies and the allies we're building. On occasion, we will doubtless find spirits to your liking, and you may have them - provided you consume them on your own time, and manage not to make a complete ass of yourself drunk. While sober - and yes, you will be sober for long periods of time or you will get yourself or someone else killed - you should keep your tongue to yourself. Do not insult my friends and allies, do not insult strangers we meet, and keep all sniggering and commentary on the bodyparts of others entirely silent. You are odious, offensive, and wantonly cruel, and I understand a large part of why this is so but that does not mean I will permit it from a soldier under my command, however informal an army we make."

Oghren snores.

"I can see I'll be having this conversation quite often," Edward sighs to himself.

+

Shale is breathtaking. She is also nearly as crass as Oghren, and Edward wonders if it is simply the nature of dwarves, or merely his luck in finding two such creatures. Shale does not like to hear that she was once a dwarf, certainly does not want anything in common with Oghren, but concedes she has no memory of an origin, and this is as good an explanation as any.

She warms very slowly to most of the party, but the Admiral endears himself speedily with the gift of a dead bird.

Edward gives her a less drink-oriented version of the same speech he continues to give Oghren, with little hope of improvement from either of them.

+

Goldanna is a shrieking harpy and he tells Alistair firmly that he has no debt to the woman beyond their initial meeting. She has proven unworthy to be called family.

He adds, almost as nervously as Alistair had been in asking for his company on this, "My - my daughter was raised by her mother here, in Denerim. I, I supported them, of course, but I was very young when she was born and my father refused to sanction a marriage. I'm going to meet them, but I think I'd rather not do that alone. If you don't mind...?"

Alistair smiles, a little tighter than normal, and says, "Lead the way."

+

The merchant house he sent Verona and the child to is under heavy guard, which makes Edward nervous. Still, Messere Gladhill greets him personally and seems sanguine enough.

"Sad news, I'm afraid, Lord Cousland," he says. "We sent it on to the teyrnir only to find it under Howe's command and not a single Cousland left alive. We thought you'd died as well." He witters on a bit more before Edward loses his patience.

"Where is Verona?"

"Well, that's the thing," Gladhill winces. "She...died. She was visiting some friends in the - the Alienage, you know - and there was some ruckus at the Arl of Denerim's place and then there were the riots and the purge but she was caught in the middle. Then there's this plague or whatnot that's closed off the alienage entirely, so we never could get more detail than that. The lass - your girl, Rahne - is taking it quite hard. Stays in her room all day."

"May I see her, please?" Edward asks. Alistair attempts to vanish while standing still in the middle of a room, wearing shiny platemail. Under normal circumstances, Edward would find this relatively amusing.

"Of course, my lord - let me show you to her rooms..." a door which Gladhill knocks on gently, calling in a sotto voice, "Rahne-pup? You've a visitor..." and he opens the door only to find the room empty, window open.

The window which someone is climbing through - wearing studded leather, hair braided tightly to the skull. The intruder looks up and Edward sees his mother's face with Verona's eyes and he realizes that whether Messere Gladhill knew it or not, Rahne was definitely not hiding in her rooms to mourn. She had not, in fact, been hiding in her rooms at all.

"It's not what it looks like!" she blurts out, and he can't help but laugh.

"What is it, then?" he asks, his favorite riposte whenever Fergus - and later, Oren - was caught redhanded doing something naughty.

"Oh, bugger," she says, eyes widening when she sees him and Alistair just beyond Messere Gladhill. Then she pitches forward into the room and executes an impeccable combat roll, popping up with a knife in each hand. "I'm not going to Howe's dungeon, filth!" she spits.

"Rahne. This is your father," Messere Gladhill says pleadingly. "He survived - he just wanted to meet you, he didn't say anything about a dungeon."

"What," she says flatly, not really a question.

"I hardly know where to start," Edward laughs. "Except, perhaps - hello, my name is Edward Cousland, incidentally I'm your father and now a Grey Warden, and this is my...colleague...Alistair. We're far more likely to be thrown in Howe's dungeon than to bring him any prisoners, so I think we'd all feel a bit better if we sat down and had tea with less blades out."

+

Verona had, apparently, hired a few tutors the Gladhills were not aware of. Rahne made friends in the Alienage as a result of learning from a few of the residents, and connecting with her mother's people had led to her being swept up in the unrest there, suspicious of the sudden plague but incapable of investigating it on her own.

Edward requests and receives a demonstration of Rahne's skills. She is no Zevran, nor does she have Leliana's experience as a bard, but she does possess the light feet and speed a rogue needs above all - the rest is just practice, in Edward's admittedly limited experience with the discipline. She demands they assist her in her investigation and Edward is happy to oblige; the Alienage had been one of his next destinations regardless.

They find a scandal that will rock the foundations of Loghain's legitimacy, but its personal cost is felt much keener in the meantime. Some of Rahne's friends are among the elves who go unrecovered, who have already been shipped like cattle to Tevinter, from Denerim's own port.

Edward does not yet feel he has earned the privilege of calling Rahne "daughter," but he does promise her that they will find justice if they have to force it from Loghain's cold, dead hands. She smiles grimly and says she plans to do exactly that.

+

"You do realize I'm old enough to be your father," he says uncomfortably.

"But you are not. Nor am I asking for you to be one - not to me, certainly, nor to the child I will bear. But it must be a Warden's get and it must be before we defeat the Archdemon, at least if you want the victor to survive the experience."

He is gentle, though she does not ask for it. He is generous, though she does not expect it. And he is considerate, though she is not sure she likes it.

+

"Alistair will take the throne. His rule will be assured - and assisted - with a queen," Edward says firmly. "But that queen cannot be the traitor Loghain Mac Tir's daughter. Wardens are not meant to be kings or king-makers, but the Blight is here and we cannot delay, especially not with in-fighting. Darkspawn do not hold Landsmeets, they do not discuss strategy, and they do not seem to need food or rest or even water. When they come to Denerim - and they _will_ come - we must be united in our opposition or we will all surely perish."

"Who else is fit to be queen, if not Anora?"

"There is only one bloodline in the kingdom that can compare to the Theirins, and that's the Couslands," Edward announces. "My daughter has been raised in secret, and thank the Maker for that, as it means she escaped Howe's massacre. Though she has not learned much in the way of courtly etiquette, she is fair and kind, generous with her wealth and never forsworn in her promises. She has been educated well and she will be presented to the court tomorrow. Moreover, the pup and Alistair actually like each other, while Anora has admitted she would kill or execute Alistair given the chance; exactly as one might expect of a Howe or Mac Tir, but not an admirable quality of a queen towards her husband's brother - not when Alistair has not wronged her except by manipulation at other hands."

"Mercy is not always a quality to be admired," one of the staid old banns says with a sniff.

"It is a quality Ferelden will desperately need in the times ahead. Think beyond the Blight for a moment. Recall that the name is more than a dramatic title; the surge of Darkspawn and their taint spoils lands for untold ages. Recall that they have passed through swathes of farmland and realize that we will be looking famine in the eye for years before we will recover. Times will be difficult, and people will do what they must to survive. Without mercy, without a system in place to give men and women honest work and real food, all we will achieve in the next ten years is a surge in criminal behavior. If punished harshly, the poor and hungry will resent a tyrannical monarch. If punished lightly, the victims will feel powerless and resent a distant, detached ruler. And these are not objective values, 'harshly' and 'lightly.'

"I submit that the only solution is to swiftly combat the causes of crime - hunger, poverty, injustice - with the resources of the crown and the nobility. Mac Tir and Howe sold elves from Denerim's own alienage as slaves - as the Orlesians did, I might add, when they first thought to bring us to heel. This must be made right, and it must be prevented from occurring ever again. If the Denerim elves live in constant fear of the nobility's whims, how can they be blamed for not trusting our system of justice? I found a young man in Howe's dungeons, the Arl of Denerim's son, who confessed to abducting young elf-women from a dual wedding ceremony - including the brides - and raping them, even killing a Chantry sister in the process. A human Chantry sister, though it should horrify equally either way."

He paces the floor of the Landsmeet. "This is not a lad getting carried away with drink. He deliberately brought guards and his thug friends to a wedding, disrupted the ceremony, and thought he could get away with stealing the women and raping them like some kind of barbarian warlord who had conquered a tribe. And he thought that because he _can_ get away with it, because people _do_ get away with it, and the fact that I have to stand here explaining why it's wrong is simply evidence that the last thing Ferelden needs is another noble too far removed from the people to see their suffering. It needs people who have suffered, who have struggled and fought, people who know the traps of the system we have built and can ease the agony of navigating it. It needs common sense and fairness and yes - mercy. If a noble's blood is required, then let it be a Theirin and a Cousland on the thrones; there is no nobler to be found. If nobility is meaningless, if noble blood is the same as any other, then relinquish your lands and birthrights, and let the people decide by majority: who shall rule Ferelden?"


End file.
